“I’m not a cripple!” he snapped at her. As soon as he had said the words Philippe remembered her affliction and felt truly sorry. “Forgive me,” he said, and laid a hand upon her shoulder, “I didn’t mean to say that. You’ve been kind and I should be grateful. I’m afraid I haven’t been myself for quite some time.”
Once again her cheeks colored. “It is not my place to question you, my lord,” she answered, gathering the unused cloths and bowl.
“Thank you for your help,” he said. She nodded, smiled, and got awkwardly to her feet. She was already half way across the room when his voice turned her around. “What do you hear from your mistress?”
Edythe shook her head. “Nothing. But I am surprised she has stayed away so long.”
“So am I,” he answered.
She hesitated, feeling uneasy. “The dressing should be changed twice daily. Please send someone to fetch me when you wish it done.”
“I shall.” Then, as an afterthought, “Is my daughter well?”
“Very well,” Edythe answered. “I take good care of her.”
Out in the corridor Edythe leaned against the wall. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Beads of sweat shined on her forehead and she could not stop shaking. Six years at the palace, and today for the first time she had been alone with him, spoken to him with no one listening. The thrill overran her with so much force she felt close to fainting. For the next few hours Edythe was happier than she had ever been.
It was the third letter scribbled off in as many weeks, dispatched to London in the care of a special courier. In Caen Richard fretted, waiting for his father’s answer. It was imperative that he and Henry meet face-to-face in Normandy. There was trouble.
Yet even if his terse messages spurred the English king to heed this new danger, it was doubtful he could make a successful crossing now. Since mid-November the coast of Normandy had been assailed by storms, and God alone knew what conditions were at Dover.
Richard paced the floor of his room and waited, but he was worried. Perhaps the storms had kept his messages from even getting to England! Perhaps Henry had not yet heard that the King of France was building a fortress on the fringe of the Normandy frontier, which was close enough to attack Gisors in half a day’s slow march! There had been news from Brittany, too: unwelcome news of rebellions as the Bretons declared all English law invalid in their land, and sang the praises of the King of France. Each day Constance’s belly grew bigger, and when her child was born, and if it was a boy, Philippe’s claim of wardship could presage trouble for the English. Henry had made it known that he thought Philippe’s demand was unrealistic, and he would not give over custody of Geoffrey’s posthumous child. But what if Philippe forced the issue? Constance trusted him; she hated the Plantagenets. It was just one more cause for worry.
Each day Richard paced the empty council room in apprehension, pouncing upon each dispatch as it was set before him. When Christmas came there was still no word from Henry.
Philippe spent the first week of December praying at St. Denis. He had ceased his debauchery as suddenly as he had begun it, and soon he would be ready to assume the old responsibilities of his life once more.
He fasted, took Absolution, prayed. He roamed among the tombs of his ancestors, and felt the wounds on his spirit slowly heal. This was all atonement of a sort, a way to purge himself of all the sins he had accumulated these past many weeks.
When Philippe returned to the city, Isabel was there. They made no personal reconciliation, though they greeted one another with public courtesy. That night Isabel went alone to her bed: Philippe went alone to his.
The following morning Philippe and Isabel and a small group of clerics made the customary pilgrimage to the abbey church of St. Germain-des-Pres, a mile from the palace, where the king and queen washed the feet of one thousand poorfolk.
Isabel was feeling weak that morning. Her skin was hot, yet her body shook with chills. Breath came with difficulty because her lungs ached. She had caught cold coming back from Champagne, and last night she had not slept well.
The ceremony lasted the entire day. The royal couple took turns kneeling before the lines of men and women, washing their scabby feet with linen cloths and dabbing them dry with lambswool. As a further show of charity after that was done, all the mendicants were given bread that had been sopped in warm goat’s milk.
During the ritual Philippe watched his wife with grudging admiration. She looked so beautiful and fragile in her black velvet bliaud, her pale hair shaped into a braided coil at the back of her neck. It was only now, looking at her, that he realized just how much he had missed her. How could he have sent her away? Blamed her? Hated her?
She was so tiny, like a child, and Philippe felt all his anger give way to sudden tenderness. He longed to hold her in his arms, to kiss away their four-month-old estrangement. If Isabel would only forgive him, he would never be unkind to her again!
It was early evening as they prepared to leave the abbey, and Philippe took hold of her hand. Isabel looked up at him, her face white and strained. He was about to say something when she gripped his hand fiercely and gasped, “Philippe, I think I’m going to faint… She had barely finished speaking when she swayed, then fell limply into his arms.
At the palace Isabel was put into her own bed and covered with fur quilts. Giles de Jocelin, the king’s physician, was called to attend her.
“She’s very ill,” he told Philippe. Edythe, who hovered nervously at the king’s elbow, listened too. “It was foolish for her to go out into the cold today with such hot skin. It may be she has inflamed her lungs.”
“She only returned to Paris yesterday,” Philippe offered. “I didn’t know she was sick. She said nothing to me.”
Giles held up an onyx vial, then put it into Edythe’s hand. “Give her to drink of this whenever she wakes. Remember that she must be kept well bundled against the cold, otherwise the ague may set in. Tomorrow morning give her fruit juices piled with ice to cool her blood.”
Edythe nodded gravely.
Philippe felt a rush of panic in his throat. “Is she going to die?” he asked.
The physician glanced toward the bed where Isabel lay tossing in delirium; he spoke in a hushed voice. “The queen is a very tiny person, and has a nervous disposition. For such women, illness saps strength very quickly. She has a propensity for fevers; you will recall I have treated her before. In the past she has always recovered her full vigor. But this time I do not know. I will see that she has all she needs, that is all I can do.” He turned to Edythe. “You will administer to her when I am not here?”
“Of course.”
Philippe touched Giles’s sleeve. “You will stay at the palace tonight, and for as long as the queen needs you,” he commanded, leaning toward the door and beckoning to Robert de Clermont, who stood in the corridor. “The lord constable will prepare a room for you. Should Isabel have need of your healing methods during the night, I want you close at hand.”
The physician inclined his head in obedience. “I shall do exactly as you say.”
When de Jocelin and Clermont had gone out Philippe turned to Edythe. “Oh God, I’m so afraid she’s going to die,” he said.
Edythe wanted to fling herself into his arms and comfort him. She had loved him since the first day she and Isabel had come to live in Paris. That love had grown greater with the passage of time, till now it was a desperate, secret joy within her breast. She would have done anything for him.
So now she tried to ease his worry over Isabel with gentle words and a soothing voice. “My lord, we will do all we can for her, and God shall do His part.” She paused, herself uncertain. “I cannot believe that He would take her from us.”
But he wasn’t really listening to Edythe; he heard another voice, his own—the hateful accusations of the past ringing in his ears. How many times since Geoffrey’s death hadn’t he wished that Isabel had been the one to die instead? Now God was punishing Philippe’s wickedn
ess by threatening to take her after all! It was too horrible to bear.
Fear for Isabel led to concern for his daughter, and close to panic, he instructed Edythe, “See to Jacquie-Marie. Isabel was with her for a while this morning and may have passed the illness on to her.”
Edythe set the vial de Jocelin had given her on the queen’s dressing table. “Be sure to administer the medicine if she wakes,” she reminded him as she left the room.
When he could no longer hear Edythe’s footsteps in the corridor, Philippe threw off his pellison and climbed into bed beside his wife. Cautiously he slipped his hands beneath the furs. Isabel’s skin, always so soft, was hot and dry. Oh God, she WAS dying!
Her lips moved soundlessly. Stay with me, stay with me.
He slept holding her, and dreamed. Her skin was hot, so was his; they were both burning, cast down into hell for their desires. High above them Geoffrey stood, pouring oil into the flames—and he was laughing.
The peacock feathers arrived in London after Christmas.
With them came Pope Urban’s sanction for young Johnny’s coronation as the King of Ireland. Henry was radiant with joy. At last he could hand his beloved, landless son a gift of some magnitude. With it would come a means to curb any assumptions Richard had of gaining the crown without a fight. A king of Ireland could become the King of England easily enough. Henry hoped that Richard would understand that, and remember.
There was a great procession in the abbey of West Minster on the first day of the year 1187. John’s crown was laid upon the altar and blessed by the Bishop of London. The following week John was scheduled to be crowned, then sent off to Ireland to rule. All the arrangements were made, and John was gloating over his good fortune. Then something happened to disrupt it all.
Trouble in Normandy. Richard’s frantic missives reached Henry’s hands at last. The English king had been tucked away in London far too long and Philippe Capet had seen an opportunity in that absence. Henry was confused. Philippe had given back the Vexin without so much as an argument, now he was trying to forge a pathway into Normandy! What did it mean, or did he dare to ask?
It was possible the situation had been exaggerated; yes, there was always that chance. Richard was such an alarmist. But all the same he could be right and Henry didn’t dare ignore the threat. He had to go back to France immediately.
John’s coronation was quickly written off as Henry made plans to return to Normandy whenever safe passage could be arranged. At Dover castle, high upon a hill above the water, the king and his entourage waited a week for the coastal storms to clear. Johnny sulked about the loss of his crown, until he found a pretty laundress to comfort him. Henry sat by the fire in the chilly council room and conferred with his advisers.
He had brought along his most useful counselors: three men who had always helped him in the past. Godfrey was one: Godfrey the chancellor and bastard son. Henry was very fond of him, liked to have him close at hand. Godfrey gave good advice, and he was one of the most loyal men in Henry’s service. The Archbishop of Rouen, Walter of Coutances, was a wise old man, and the Norman barons bowed easily beneath the power of his persuasion. It was possible Henry would have need of his subtle rhetoric. William de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex, was one of the king’s closest friends. He had a crafty intelligence and was clever at details.
These men were the brains of the English monarchy. Together with them, with Richard, and the barons, Henry would dispense with Capet’s threat to peace along the Normandy border, if indeed there was a threat. For himself, Henry had doubts. Philippe Capet was quite unlike his amiable father, it was true, but Henry did not think him dangerous. He was just a boy! Henry Plantagenet did not tremble at the actions of a boy.
On the morning of the seventh day at Dover, following a meagre breakfast and a hasty mass, Henry and his entourage set sail for Aumale.
No joyous Christmas feasting at the Cite Palais. No festivities of any kind as the year 1186 ended. Isabel was recovering, but it would be weeks till she was strong enough to leave her bed. She slept the days and nights away, oblivious to the gay sounds of holiday merrymaking in the streets outside the palace.
Philippe celebrated a Christmas mass at St. Denis but it was the only observance he made. He was kept busy with matters of administration; too busy to lament the lack of a Christmas court.
His months of idleness had produced a huge backlog of work. There were charters to be written and signed. Plans for the paving of more city streets once warm weather came. Deeds of sale for property—confiscated by the crown in lieu of taxes paid—to be drawn and witnessed. And there was the constant matter of raising money.
The Notre Dame building fund was waning as costs rose steadily for the project. Labor, materials, and the cost of importing both were proving a terrific drain on the allocated budget. Philippe had settled upon a method of resolving that. He was bringing the Jews back to Paris. Jews were primarily merchants, and merchants meant money. Philippe required each returning Jew to pay a steep repatriation fee. The money was then transferred to the building fund. The king didn’t care if his cathedral was built in part by contributions from unbelievers, so long as it was built.
But even as Philippe kept busy, administrating the needs and commerce of his city, he was concentrating on a far wider landscape. Things were happening out there in the great world. Henry Plantagenet had come back to Normandy, alarmed at the presence of French troops on his border. Philippe had anticipated that; invited it even. It was time to let the King of England know just how matters stood between them—how things were now and would be in the future.
Henry was losing control, Philippe could sense it, and he smiled with satisfaction at the thought. It wouldn’t be long now—not long before the son of Louis Capet could recapture every inch of land that had been stolen by the English and still more after that. It was inevitable. It was justice. It was all Philippe could think of.
There was only one thing on earth he wanted more.
She was only dozing and woke suddenly when the darkness of his shadow covered her. “Philippe?” she asked sleepily and reached up to take his hand.
It was impossible to see his face, but the sound of his voice was pleasant to her ears. “Are you feeling stronger?” he asked. “I’ve been so busy in these past few weeks I haven’t had the chance to look in on you, but Edythe tells me you are much improved.”
“Yes,” she answered, “I am better now, but for a time I believed that I was going to die.” Isabel scooted over on the bed as if to make room for him, but her eyes still kept him at a distance. She could have banished the memory of the past few months by merely opening her arms to him but Isabel didn’t want to. He should be made to understand what he had done to her. All the bitterness and doubt and separation that had gone on between them since Geoffrey’s death had left ugly scars, and scars, if touched, still hurt.
He knew what she was feeling. “I was worried,” he said, and Isabel looked back at him, confused, sad, slow to forgive. They had played this scene so many times, both of them stubborn and resisting, but in the end there was always an unspoken truce of passion. Feeling it now, Philippe grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close, their lips touching. “I want you, Isabel,” he gasped. “I want you.”
Her pride rebelled in a sudden gush of anger and Isabel struggled out of his arms. “But you didn’t want me last September! Then you would have liked for me to die. And like the fool I am, I would have gladly given up my life to make you happy. But no more, Philippe. No more …”
Philippe’s hands were tight on her shoulders, cruel and carressing. “I don’t care about what happened then. It all seems very long ago. You want me. Why won’t you admit it?”
She looked up at him with self-pitying eyes. “As you once said to me: I’m here, isn’t that good enough?”
“No,” he answered, and slid his hands around her throat. He could feel her heavy pulse beneath the pressure of his thumbs.
Isabel didn’t m
ove. She was afraid of his strength and yet excited by it. Her voice was as small and meek as she could make it. “You’re hurting me.”
He did not take his hands away. “Where were you all the time you were away from Paris?”
There was something ominous in his voice, something subtle that she could not miss. “I was in Beaujeu with my sister,” she answered quietly. “I told you that.”
“And where else?”
Isabel tried to pry Ms fingers from her throat. He did know! Someone had told him or he had guessed. “I went to Champagne, to Troyes, for the Autumn fair,” she admitted.
Philippe relaxed his grip a little, but his voice still threatened her. “You were with my cousin, weren’t you?”
“Henri?” The name caught guiltily in her throat.
“Were you with him?”
She shook her head violently. “Not with him, not the way you mean it. I stayed at his chateau in Troyes, a family courtesy, that’s all.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, and took his hands away.
“It’s true!” The conviction in her voice rang so strongly she nearly believed the lie herself.
Philippe moistened his thumb and slid it back and forth across her bottom lip. “I know you, I know your ways.”
She drew back a little but her eyes were bold. “I did nothing. Nothing wrong.” Isabel’s fingers stroked the angry marks at her throat. “And if the stories your mother tells of your behavior while I was away are true, that is more than you can say!”
She cringed too late and he slapped her, flinging her back on the bed. “Whore, whore,” he taunted, standing over her.
They had suffered through many times of crisis in the past, but Isabel had never known him to be as cruel as this. She peered up at him through a veil of disordered hair, tears shining in her eyes. “How can you treat me this way? How can you act as if I am the one to blame for all the trouble between us? I have done everything I could to make you happy. But now, like so often in the past, you turn your back on me when I need you most!”
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